《莊子》Vol. 25

In Chapter 25 of the Zhuangzi, “Zeyang,” a man named Zeyang traveled to the state of Chu. He hoped to meet the king, so he asked the minister Yijie to recommend him. Yijie brought the matter to the king, but the king did not receive Zeyang. Yijie had no choice but to return.

Later, Zeyang went to see another minister, Wang Guo, and asked, “Why didn’t you put in a good word for me with the king?”

Wang Guo replied, “I’m not as capable in this regard as Gong Yuexiu, a worthy man known for his eloquence.”

Curious, Zeyang asked, “What sort of person is Gong Yuexiu?”

Note: This passage uses a narrative device common in the Zhuangzi: a chain of questions that leads the story forward. Gong Yuexiu is a fictional sage who has attained the Dao. His story later develops the Daoist idea of Wuwei (non-action). At the time, it was common for scholars to travel among the states and offer counsel to rulers; through this episode, Zhuangzi satirizes the restless pursuit of official position.

In winter, he catches soft-shelled turtles by the river; in summer, he rests in the mountain forests. When someone asks why he lives this way, he replies, “This is my home.” The passage depicts a recluse living in accordance with nature.

A person like Yijie, a fictional figure, has no genuine De (Virtue/Power) but thinks himself clever. He does not hold himself to high standards, yet approaches others with this attitude. Absorbed in the pursuit of wealth and status, he does not use De to help people; instead, he becomes a burden to them. This criticizes a false way of conducting oneself.

It is like someone who is freezing and expects a thick spring coat to warm him, or someone suffering heatstroke who hopes for a winter breeze to cool him down. These images suggest unrealistic expectations.

The King of Chu is imposing and exalted in appearance, but he shows no mercy toward wrongdoing and is as fierce as a tiger. Who could change him, unless they were skilled at flattery or truly possessed De?

Thus, the true sage—the person who has attained the Dao (the Way)—… The original passage is unfinished, but the contrast suggests that it is about to introduce the sage’s way of dealing with the world.

This passage describes the state of a person who has attained the Dao (the Way):

When they are in poverty, they can help their family forget their hardship. When they rise to prominence, they can make princes and nobles forget their rank and stipends and become humble. They live in harmony with external things. With other people, they welcome conversation and exchange while remaining true to their own nature.

Such a person need not say much: their calm Qi (vital energy) naturally affects others. In company, they transform people without effort. Even the way parents and children relate can return to its original simplicity, with each keeping to their proper place. This state of mind is far removed from the concerns of ordinary people. That is why it is described as “awaiting Gongyue Xiu,” a reference to attaining a profound state of natural Wuwei (non-action).

Sages resolve the troubles of the world and merge with the myriad things without being aware of it; this follows from their nature. They accord with the patterns of nature and take the Dao of Heaven as their teacher. People then follow their example of their own accord. If one is always troubled by clever schemes, one’s actions will rarely endure. How, then, can such a life find a true home?

Note: “Gongyue Xiu” is a fictional figure created by Zhuangzi, symbolizing the ideal of natural Wuwei. “Returning to the root of life and acting in accordance with it” refers to returning to one’s original nature and following the natural course of things.

A naturally beautiful person may be given a mirror by others, yet, unless they tell them, that person will not know they are more beautiful than others. Whether they know it or not, whether they have heard it or not, the joy that comes from this beauty never ends, and neither does the affection others feel for them. This is human nature.

A sage cares for others, and people give the sage a good name. Yet, unless they tell the sage, the sage will not know they are caring for others. Whether the sage knows it or not, whether they have heard it or not, their care for people never ends, and neither does people’s ease in receiving that care. This, too, is human nature.

When we see our native place and homeland, our hearts feel at ease. Even if nine-tenths of it is hidden beneath hills and vegetation, once we enter it, our hearts still feel at ease.

Those who truly understand the nature of seeing and hearing stand apart from the crowd, as if suspended high above it. Ran Xiangshi, a legendary adept who attained the Dao, grasped its central principle and allowed all things to come naturally to completion. He lived among them without distinguishing beginning from end and without a sense of time. Though he changed along with all things each day, his inner nature remained constant. How could anyone readily abandon such a state?

Anyone who deliberately tries to imitate the workings of Heaven without understanding them will instead become entangled in external things. The sage’s state is one in which Heaven and humanity are not deliberately set apart, beginnings and endings are not clung to, and things and self are not divided. The sage moves with the world without being altered by it, and acts with completeness without becoming absorbed in anything. King Tang, founder of the Shang dynasty, found the fictional figure Men Yindeng Heng, who governed the Way of Heaven, as his teacher, yet was not bound by him. After attaining the state of “following things to their natural completion,” he came to regard even fame lightly. Confucius, despite exhausting his thoughts, could do no more than imitate this state. As Rong Chengshi, an ancient Daoist figure, put it: “Forget the days, and there will be no years. Make no distinction between inner and outer, and you will reach perfect wholeness.”

Here, “the center of the ring” refers to the Dao’s central principle; “following things to completion” means allowing them to come naturally to fulfillment; and “seeing both sides” describes seeing through opposing ways of understanding.

King Wei Ying of Wei, known as King Hui of Wei, and Marquis Tian Mou, ruler of Qi, made an alliance. Later, Marquis Tian broke the agreement. Wei Ying was furious and prepared to send someone to assassinate him.

When the Wei general Xishou, also known as Gongsun Yan, heard of this, he felt deeply ashamed and advised the king: “As the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots, you would take revenge in the manner of an ordinary person! I ask to lead an army of two hundred thousand against Qi. We will capture its people and seize its cattle and horses, leaving its ruler so distressed that sores break out on his back. After we take their capital, I will drive the Qi general Tian Ji into a desperate flight, then strike him hard from behind and break his spine.”

The worthy Wei minister Ji Zi heard of this and also thought the plan misguided. He remonstrated: “It would be like building a city wall ten ren high—about eighteen meters—and then tearing it down. That would make the prisoners who built it suffer for nothing. There have been no wars for seven years. This is the foundation on which Your Majesty governs the state.” Here, the city wall stands for peace, which is hard won; launching a war lightly would be as regrettable as destroying a wall already built.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and presents Hua Zi, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period, on political decision-making.

Hua Zi heard people debating whether to attack the state of Qi and criticized them:

“Those who argue forcefully for attacking Qi disturb people’s minds. Those who argue forcefully against attacking Qi also disturb people’s minds. And those who say that either choice will disturb people’s minds disturb them even more.”

The ruler asked him, “Then what should we do?”

Hua Zi replied, “You need only seek the Dao (the Way)—the fundamental pattern of following nature.”

The exchange reflects the Daoist idea of Wuwei (non-action): deliberately advocating a particular political course can create disorder. The proper response, it suggests, is to return to the natural way.

This passage from the Zhuangzi recounts a conversation between Huizi (Hui Shi) and Dai Jinren, a hermit:

Dai Jinren asked Huizi, “Have you heard of the tiny creature called a snail?” Huizi replied, “Of course.”

Dai Jinren continued, “On the snail’s left horn is a country called Chu, and on its right horn is a country called Man. These two small states often go to war over territory. Each battle leaves tens of thousands dead, and the defeated side has to flee for fifteen days before reaching its own country again.”

Huizi listened in astonishment and said, “Good heavens! Surely that’s just an invented story?”

[Interpretation]

This parable uses the wars on a snail’s horns to mock the absurdity of the feudal lords’ struggles for supremacy in the real world. Speaking through Dai Jinren, Zhuangzi reminds us that wars fought over petty gains look just as ridiculous from the perspective of the cosmos as battles on a snail’s horns. Even the devastation of wars said to leave “tens of thousands of corpses” amounts to little more than trivial skirmishing on a snail’s horn.

A minister said, “Allow me to explain this. Do you think the space above and below, in all four directions—in other words, the whole universe—has an end?”

The ruler replied, “It has no end.”

The minister continued, “Once you know that the mind can roam through this boundless space, when you turn back and look at the accessible realm where we live—the human world—does it not seem almost unreal, scarcely worth notice?”

“Indeed,” the ruler replied.

Through this exchange between ruler and minister, the passage vividly expresses Zhuangzi’s idea of “making all things equal” (qiwu). Once we recognize the vastness of the infinite universe, we understand how small the human world is by comparison. The “accessible realm” serves as a metaphor for the limits of ordinary understanding, while “seeming to exist and then vanish” reflects the Daoist view that things are relative.

This passage from the original text of Zhuangzi presents a philosophical dialogue.

Within the realm of open understanding there was the state of Wei. In Wei stood the city of Daliang, where a king lived. The king asked, “Is there any difference between me and the leader of the southern tribes?”

He answered his own question: “There is no difference.”

After the visitor left, the king felt a deep sense of loss, as though he had misplaced something important.

Later, Huizi, a friend of Zhuangzi and a leading figure of the School of Names, came to see the king. The king said, “That visitor just now was truly remarkable.”

The central idea of this dialogue is that, before the supreme Dao (the Way), a king and a tribal leader have no essential difference in status or rank. Through this parable, Zhuangzi illustrates the equality of all things and loosens people’s attachment to worldly power and position. The king’s sense of loss at the end reflects his realization of a profound truth that transcends worldly hierarchies.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells several stories.

Huishi, a leading figure of the School of Names, says:

“When you blow into a wind instrument, you can at least produce a loud sound. But blow through the small hole in a sword hilt, and all you hear is a faint ‘whoosh.’ The sages Yao and Shun are praised by the world, but to speak of them before Dai Jinren, a legendary man who had attained the Dao, is like the faint sound made by blowing through a sword hilt.”

Another story tells of Confucius’s visit to the state of Chu. His party stayed near a shop in a place called Ant Hill, where a seller offered rice wine. The couple and servants in the neighboring household climbed onto the roof to watch. Zilu, one of Confucius’s disciples, asked, “What are all these people crowding together to do?”

Confucius replied:

“They are all followers of sages. They choose to live hidden among ordinary people, taking shelter between the fields. They speak little, yet their aspirations are far-reaching; when they do speak, their hearts remain silent. They deliberately keep their distance from worldly customs and have no desire to go along with the crowd.”

The passage contrasts those who have truly attained the Dao, who often remain unknown, with the sages celebrated by the world, who seem small beside a higher state of understanding. Through this contrast, Zhuangzi expresses his esteem for Wuwei (non-action) and a life of freedom and ease.

This passage tells how Confucius and his disciple Zilu encountered the recluse Shi’nan Yiliao of Chu.

Zilu wanted to go and invite Shi’nan Yiliao to meet Confucius. Confucius said, “Let it be. He knows that I understand his character, and he knows I am going to Chu. He will surely think I intend to have the king of Chu summon him. Then he would take me for a smooth-tongued flatterer. A recluse like him is ashamed even to hear flattering words—how much more so to meet someone who uses them. Do you think he would still be there, waiting for you to find him?”

Zilu went to see, but found Shi’nan Yiliao’s dwelling already empty.

The passage presents the kind of recluse admired in Daoist thought: someone who despises currying favor in official circles and would rather withdraw from the world. Confucius understood this attitude, though Confucianism generally favored active engagement in public life. The two approaches to life make an interesting contrast.

The gatekeeper at Changwu asked Zilao:

“When you govern, don’t be rash or rough; when you manage the people, don’t be careless. When I used to grow crops, if I worked the soil carelessly, the harvest I got in return was meager. If I weeded without care, the crops repaid me with shriveled fruit. The following year I changed my approach. I plowed deeply and carefully, and weeded thoroughly. The seedlings grew lush and strong, and I had enough to eat all year.”

When Zhuangzi heard this, he commented:

“People today who tend their bodies and cultivate their minds often end up as the gatekeeper described. They turn away from their natural character, depart from their true nature, suppress their innate feelings, and lose their inner spirit, all in order to follow worldly ways. Those who treat their nature carelessly let desires and aversions grow like weeds—reeds and rushes crowding the field—and these ruin their nature.”

Zhuangzi uses farming as a metaphor for nourishing life and cultivating the mind. Just as a farmer must care for crops attentively to reap a good harvest, people must cultivate body and mind in accord with their natural character if they are to receive true nourishment. Treating one’s nature roughly leaves it overrun with the weeds of desire and distracting thoughts.

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi and tells of Boju seeking instruction from Laozi (Lao Dan).

The first paragraph uses illness as a metaphor. At first, only mild symptoms affect the body, gradually eroding one’s nature. Later, the illness is like an abscess that bursts and spreads uncontrollably, appearing in many forms—such as sores on the skin, internal heat, and cloudy urine. This describes how desires and fixations, if left unchecked, can grow from something slight into something beyond control.

In the second paragraph, Boju studies under Laozi and asks his teacher, “Please allow me to travel throughout the world and put what I have learned into practice.”

Laozi replies, “There is no need. The world is the same everywhere; you can understand the Way right here.” This expresses the Daoist idea that one can know the world without stepping outside the door: truth is close at hand and need not be sought far away.

Boju asks again, and Laozi counters, “Where do you intend to begin?” The question carries a deeper meaning: cultivation should begin here and now, with oneself, rather than by seeking outward.

This passage from the Zhuangzi tells the following story:

The story takes place in the state of Qi.

Someone arrives in Qi and sees the corpse of an executed criminal. He goes over, straightens the body, takes off his own official robe and covers it, then looks up at the sky and weeps bitterly. “You, you! A great calamity has befallen the world, and you were the first to suffer. People are always saying, ‘Don’t be a thief! Don’t kill anyone!’”

He then reflects: “Only after people establish ideas of honor and disgrace do they see things that cause distress. Only after wealth and goods are amassed do disputes arise. Now the standards the rulers have established are precisely those that cause distress, and what they have amassed is precisely what people will fight over. They leave the people exhausted in body and mind, with no peace. Is it possible to prevent tragedies like this?”

Here, “the guilty person” means a criminal who has been executed, and “official robe” refers to the formal garment worn by an official in ancient times. Through this story, Zhuangzi criticizes rulers for establishing social norms that themselves give rise to social problems.

The wise rulers of ancient times

credited the people with their achievements

and took responsibility for their own failures.

They credited the people with what was right

and took responsibility for what was wrong.

So whenever anything was not done well,

they stepped back to reflect and reproach themselves.

Today’s rulers do things differently.

They conceal the truth, then blame the people for failing to see through it.

They create difficulties, then blame the people for not daring to face them.

They increase the burdens, then punish the people for being unable to bear them.

They set distant goals, then punish the people for failing to reach them.

After the people have exhausted all their strength,

they can only resort to pretending in order to get by.

Deception and falsehood grow ever more common.

How could the people not follow suit?

When people lack ability, they resort to pretense.

When they lack wisdom, they deceive.

When they lack money, they steal.

Who, then, is to blame for these acts of theft?

By contrasting ancient and present times, this passage criticizes rulers who evade responsibility and make excessive demands of the people. Zhuangzi argues that those in power should look to their own conduct: the roots of the people’s failings lie in the rulers’ improper demands. Here, “pretense” refers to the falsehood people are driven to adopt, in contrast with the Daoist ideal of “genuineness.”

Qu Boyu, a worthy official of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, lived to the age of sixty. Throughout those sixty years, his thinking kept changing. Each time he judged an idea to be right and put it into practice, he eventually discovered that it was wrong. Is what he now regards as right not a repudiation of what he understood during the previous fifty-nine years?

All things have their patterns of growth, yet we cannot see their source. They each have ways of appearing, yet we cannot find the paths by which they come into being.

People all esteem the knowledge they already possess, but do not understand that true understanding can be gained only by relying on the wisdom they have yet to discover. Is this not the greatest confusion? Enough, enough! This limitation of understanding cannot be escaped. Is this what is meant by “that which is so is so”?

Confucius sought advice from three court historians: Tai Shi Dāo, Bo Chang Jian, and Xi Wei. He said, “Duke Ling of Wei is absorbed in drinking and revelry and neglects the affairs of state. He delights in hunting and catching birds, and does not attend the meetings of the feudal lords...”

This dialogue from the Zhuangzi discusses why Duke Ling of Wei, a ruler of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period, was called “Ling” (a posthumous title). Different figures offer different explanations.

Da Tao, a Daoist figure, gives a brief answer: “Because that is simply what he was like.”

Bo Changqian, another wise man, offers a fuller explanation: “Duke Ling had three wives, and often bathed with them in the same bathhouse. Yet when Shi Qiu, a worthy minister of Wei, came to remonstrate with gifts, Duke Ling would respectfully straighten his robes and help him along. He indulged himself so freely, yet treated a worthy man with such respect. That is why he was called ‘Duke Ling.’”

Xi Wei, a legendary ruler of high antiquity, tells a story: “After Duke Ling died, divination showed that he could not be buried in the ancestral tomb, and that burial beneath the Sand Dune (a place name) would bring good fortune. After they had dug several zhang deep, they found a stone coffin. They cleaned it and saw an inscription carved on it…”

(Note: The original text breaks off here; what follows may have explained the inscription and its connection to Duke Ling’s posthumous title. In antiquity, the title ‘Ling’ could mean ‘disorderly, yet not ruined’: it pointed to his debauchery while also acknowledging his ability to govern by employing worthy ministers.)

This passage from the Zhuangzi has three parts.

The first says: “Without relying on his son, Duke Ling of Wei (a ruler of the state of Wei during the Spring and Autumn period) forcibly took it away and buried it.” The text goes on to say that Duke Ling had long been known by the posthumous title “Ling.” How could these two people—the speakers in the passage—truly understand what that title meant?

The second part has Shaozhi, a fictional character, ask Taigong Tiao, also fictional: “What is meant by ‘the sayings of the village’—local sayings or customs?”

In the third part, Taigong Tiao replies: “What we call ‘the village’ is a custom formed by bringing together ten family names and a hundred kinds of appellation. It can combine different things into one, and it can also divide what is one into many. Take a horse as an example: pointing to its separate parts does not give you a complete horse. Yet when a horse stands before you, it is precisely the combination of those parts that makes it a whole horse.”

Soil piled up in small amounts becomes a high mountain; rivers grow broad as streams flow into them. A sage—here, “great person” means someone of high virtue—embraces different views and thereby upholds what is fair. When listening to others, one holds to one’s own judgment without becoming rigid. When expressing one’s views, one welcomes agreement without rejecting dissent.

The seasons differ in their patterns of weather, yet Heaven shows no favoritism, and the years follow their ordered cycle. Officials have different duties, and the ruler does not interfere in them, so the state can be governed. People excel in different kinds of learning and ability, and the sage does not force them to be alike; thus virtue is made complete. The principles that govern the myriad things differ, while the Dao (the Way), the source of the cosmos, favors none. It cannot be confined by a name.

Because it cannot be named, it follows its natural course. It seems to do nothing, yet brings everything to completion. Time has beginnings and endings, and affairs are always changing. Fortune and misfortune turn into one another. Things that seem contradictory each have their own reason for being.

This passage expresses the Daoist idea of governing through Wuwei (non-action): follow the patterns of nature and make room for difference. Through images such as the turning seasons and officials each carrying out their own duties, it shows that diversity is necessary for the whole to come into being.

(“Zeyang,” the Miscellaneous Chapters of the Zhuangzi) This dialogue explores the meaning of the Dao (the Way):

Shao Zhi asked Tai Gong Tiao, “If that is so, is it enough simply to call it the ‘Dao’?”

Tai Gong Tiao replied, “No. We can count far more than ten thousand kinds of things, yet by convention we call them ‘the ten thousand things,’ using the largest number as a general name for them all. So:

Heaven and Earth are the greatest of physical forms.

Yin-Yang (the complementary forces of Yin and Yang) are the greatest of Qi (vital energy).

And the Dao is the common source that contains them all.”

The earlier image makes a similar point: in a great marsh, different kinds of timber can each find their place; on a high mountain, trees and stones can coexist. This is the wisdom expressed in a village saying: though the ten thousand things differ in countless ways (“each follows its own course and has a different form”), each has its own grounds for being as it is (“where there is what is fitting, there is difference”).

Note: “Yin” and “Yang” are core Daoist concepts referring to the two fundamental, complementary forces of the cosmos. “Tai Gong Tiao” is a fictional wise figure, unrelated to Jiang Taigong.

In this passage from the “Zeyang” chapter of the Zhuangzi, the dialogue explores how the myriad things come into being and change:

Shaozhi, a fictional character, asks: “Where do the myriad things arise from, within the space between Heaven and Earth and throughout the six directions of the cosmos?”

Taigong Diao, a fictional sage, replies:

Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang) Qi (vital energy) reflect one another, cover one another, and find harmony together. The four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—take turns, giving rise to one another and restraining one another. From this come opposing feelings such as liking and disliking, keeping one’s distance and drawing near. The mating and pairing of females and males also take shape in this way.

Safety and danger transform into one another; calamity and good fortune give rise to one another. Slowness and speed rub against each other, while gathering and dispersal bring the myriad things into being.

The passage expresses Daoism’s central dialectical view of Yin-Yang: the myriad things arise through the unity of opposites, in which opposing forces both generate and complete one another. “The six directions” means the entire cosmic space above and below, and in all four directions. Yin-Yang is Daoism’s most fundamental concept for understanding complementary opposites.

Zhuangzi’s passage describes the patterns by which things change:

The names and substance of things can be recorded, and their finer details can be understood. They influence one another in a certain order, each setting the other in motion like parts of a bridge. When development reaches its limit, it returns to its starting point; an ending becomes a new beginning. These are inherent features of things. Language can describe them clearly, and wisdom can recognize them—but only as they apply to particular things.

Those who have truly realized the Dao do not cling to the point at which things perish, or try to investigate their beginning, because such discussions have no end.

Then Shaozhi asked: “Jizhen advocates governing through Wuwei (non-action), while Jiezi advocates taking action. Which of these two schools is closer to the truth? Which offers the more complete and reasonable account?”

Taigong Diao replied: “Everyone knows ordinary things like a cock crowing or a dog barking. But even someone of great wisdom cannot fully explain in words the inner causes of how they change.”

This exchange reflects the Zhuangzi school’s thinking about the approaches of Wuwei and active intervention. It suggests that things follow their own natural patterns of change, which cannot be fully grasped in words.

This passage from the Zhuangzi speaks of the Dao (the Way)—the fundamental pattern of the cosmos—as something that exceeds human understanding.

The Dao is so subtle that it cannot be described in words, and so vast that it has no bounds. Some say that a force makes things happen; others say that things happen naturally, without action. But both explanations still treat the Dao as if it were a particular thing, and so they ultimately go astray.

To say that a force makes things happen makes the Dao seem too concrete; to say that things happen without action makes it seem too empty. Whatever has a name and substance belongs to the realm of particular things. The Dao itself is without name or substance.

The more we try to describe or imagine it, the further we move from the truth. What has not yet been born cannot be prevented from coming into being; what has died cannot be stopped from passing away. Birth and death seem close at hand, yet their underlying principle is difficult to see. The claims that a force makes things happen or that things happen naturally without action are both conjectures people invent out of uncertainty.

When I trace the Dao back to its source, I find that it extends endlessly into the past. When I follow it toward its farthest reaches, I find that it continues without end into the future.

The Great Dao is limitless and without bounds. When we speak of the Dao as “nothing,” it still follows the same principle as all things. At times, it may seem to do nothing. When we call this the Dao’s root, we are saying that the Dao always comes into being and passes away together with all things.

The Dao cannot simply be said to exist or not exist. The name “Dao” is only a borrowed expression we use. Any particular action or inaction is merely one-sided understanding of a specific thing. How could it reveal the full scope of the Great Way?

If words were sufficient, we could speak for an entire day and exhaust the Dao. If words were insufficient, we could speak for an entire day and describe only particular things. Neither speech nor silence can fully convey the ultimate truth of the Dao and things. The true Dao is neither something words can explain nor something silence can express. Human discussion always has its limits.

Here Zhuangzi shows that the Dao transcends speech. Language can describe particular things, but it cannot fully express the wholeness of the Great Dao. This is a classic expression of the Daoist idea of grasping the meaning and then forgetting the words.